Well, not really, but his story of losing his wife and mother only hours apart inspired me to travel. Burdened by grief, Teddy abandoned politics, left his infant daughter Alice with his sister Bamie, and, at the end of 1884, struck out for the Dakota territories, where he lived as a rancher and worked as a sheriff for two years.
I am, however, not going to be a rancher or a sheriff, although I still think I could pull off the sheriff costume.
I am going to travel and blog for the next 30 days to try and get my head back into writing mode so I can write for a living again.
Writing is difficult. Writing after your husband dies suddenly is almost impossible.
But it's what I do and it's what I will continue to do.
Today I am writing from a hotel in St. George, Utah, a town that used to give me the creeps, but I now enjoy. Things change.
I am off to Moab in a few hours to hike and see the sandstone arches for the first time and possibly get snowed in.
My darling husband loved a good adventure, but he always made sure we had a bag with wine, chocolate, matches and a blanket in the car in case we were snowed in. I have my whole life in the car, including the wine and chocolate, so I'm good to go.
See, I just wrote a blog post. Teddy knew what he was doing and so do I.
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